


No Diamonds Could Shine So

by theherocomplex



Series: Distant Shores and Voices [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: The fault, he decides, lies with her dress.





	No Diamonds Could Shine So

**Author's Note:**

> Pure self-indulgence, written in response to the prompt "A kiss because I have literally been watching you all night and I can’t take anymore".
> 
> Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YudwunKZ85I), which features in the ever-lovely "Under the Greenwood Tree".

 

Torture, Fenris realizes, does not always have to involve pain. Sometimes, it is merely deprivation. 

Perhaps thinking of this night as _torture_ is facetious; it is merely the Seneschal's yearly feast, and while an evening spent in the company of what seems like every noble in Kirkwall, as well as every merchant too rich to be snubbed, is nowhere near Fenris' idea of _enjoyable_ , it is certainly not torture. 

He is warm, he is fed, and he is not on display. It is an almost pleasant night, by even his standards — but apart from one dance, nearly two hours ago, he has not touched Hawke, and that is unacceptable. 

The fault, he decides, lies with her dress. Nearly everyone present is dressed in some shade of green or white — his grass-green coat no exception — but Hawke wears gold and red, as always, and she stands out like blood on gauze in the hot, close hall. 

It will drive him mad if he keeps watching her, and cannot press his mouth to the back of her neck, so he murmurs an excuse to Varric while Hawke is preoccupied with one of the de Launcets' atrocious daughters, and liberates a bottle of wine from the table as he passes. The hall is ringed with balconies, no doubt much cooler than the floor, and he will linger there until he has himself under control. 

His control has never been in question; he once knelt in snow for four hours when ordered to do so, and though he remembers the cold biting into his legs with perfect clarity, he never faltered. Why now should a dress undo him? 

Because Hawke wears it, and because Hawke is his, and because he still wonders at the great, bewildering luck that should make her so. He does not deserve her, that bright-eyed, laughing woman who sleeps beside him and smiles — and yet. 

And now she wears a blood-red dress that makes her skin glow like a pearl, with gold ribbons in her hair, and when they danced, he felt the heat of her body blazing against him, and her breath on his neck — 

He laughs as he reaches the balcony and leans against the railing. Long ago, he accepted he was a fool for Hawke, but is he truly so struck by love he can think of nothing but her? Yes, they are new again, and all is finally right between them — but does it deserve this much joy? Should her face fill his heart so? 

Should he drink this bottle of wine, when he is — to use Varric's awful, overwrought phrase — clearly drunk on Hawke? 

Fenris laughs again, and raises the bottle to his lips. He must pass the time somehow, until they can escape, and on this balcony, he may be as foolish as he wishes, with no one the wiser. 

Such thoughts would have seemed impossible a year ago. Such thoughts _were_ impossible five years ago. But he is older now, and safe, and — hesitant as he is to say so out loud, for fear of losing it all — happy. 

He still aches at the thought of burying his hands in Hawke's hair, of the small noises she would make as he did, but it is not torture now. It is anticipation, sharpened by the brief glances he catches of Hawke below him. 

Fenris loses sight of her for good between one sip of wine and then next, and has just decided to set the bottle aside and go search her out when the door behind him creaks open. He tenses, old instincts rising, but the footstep that falls on the carpet is one he knows. He has no reason to be on his guard. 

"There you are," says Hawke. The tiny ruby she wears on a chain catches the candlelight. "Have you been hiding up here long?" 

"Not too long," he says, unable to help the foolish, foolish smile spreading over his face as she shuts the door and crosses to him. He will blame the smile on the wine, he decides, only for Hawke to make him a liar by leaning her chin on his chest and winding her arms around him. 

"You don't have to pretend this isn't awful," she says, wrinkling her nose at him. The dark kohl around her eyes is smudged and her hair is tangled, and Fenris smells the faint salt of her sweat as she nestles closer. "I promise, you will never have to go to one of these again." 

Fenris begins to think of a reply — that they have endured far worse nights, and will undoubtedly do so again — but before he opens his mouth, the soft curves of Hawke's body distract him. He feels her breasts rise and fall with each breath, how they strain the thin fabric of her dress, and finds his mouth dry as dust in an instant. 

"It has been," he manages, while the last rational part of his brain mocks him from a great distance, "tolerable." 

" _Tolerable_ ," says Hawke, leaning back with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're not about to start stabbing anyone, are you? I mean, it depends on the person, really, but that might not be advisable —" 

He hears every word she says, could repeat it back with perfect clarity, but the ruby has come to rest between her breasts, and Hawke, Hawke is in his arms, and she smells delicious and she will taste delicious too, like wine and sugar, and so there is no reason why he should not kiss her, right now, between one word and the next. 

She makes a startled noise that quickly melts into a sigh when Fenris kisses her, and in the space of a breath she goes pliant in his arms, her mouth opening to his and her whole body curving toward him. 

It is a grand, glorious folly, loving someone this much; Fenris has known enough loss in his life to believe that. He knows there are those who whisper about the upstart Fereldan and her elven lover, that some of the smiling faces below them hide only hate in their hearts — but he does not, cannot, bring himself to care. Not when Hawke is making that breathy moan that always sends his skin prickling. 

"Fenris," Hawke says, gasping for air as she pulls away. "Love, should we — should we leave?" 

And delay their pleasure any longer? If he is to be foolish, he will not do so in half-measures. "I would have you here," he says, kissing her neck, smiling when she wriggles. "If you would have me." 

Hawke laughs. "Oh, Maker, we'll be caught for sure —" But she is not truly worried, for when he lifts her by the waist, she slings her legs around his hips without another word, and she manages to unbutton his shirt without breaking their kiss. 

The carpet is thick and warm, and so he lies Hawke down there, heart beating fast and his cock throbbing against his thigh. Her skirts ride up as she shifts, baring creamy skin marred by old scars, and while Fenris is preoccupied by the sight — more foolishness, to let his guard down so — her fingers work nimbly at his trousers. 

"If we're quiet," she murmurs, and then meets his eyes with a sheepish grin. Fenris grins back, even as her fingers reach his heated flesh and free his cock. "Well, I can try." 

"Yes, you can," he agrees, then throws his head back with a moan as she begins to stroke him, slowly. Each touch is a special agony; he wants to be inside her, with her legs locked around his hips as he thrusts, but then Hawke rises, a little unsteady, and her mouth closes over him. 

Any plan for what comes next is lost in sensation. Fenris feels slick heat, the sly pressure of Hawke's fingers on his balls — she knows him so well, knows how he can stand to be touched, and he will lose himself in her if she keeps going, but he cannot find the words to tell her to stop. 

He makes some noise, for she pulls away with a rich smile that makes his knees buckle. She stretches out on her back, her legs falling open, and strokes his cheek with her fingers. 

_Come to me,_ her smile says, and Fenris does not delay. 

Hawke is always warm, always pliant, when he has her like this, but she feels nearly boneless tonight, all soft skin and sighs as Fenris slips inside her. He holds still, stealing a look from her face to stare at the place where their bodies are joined, and only begins to move when Hawke whimpers and lifts her hips to his. 

Fenris tries, truly tries, to take his time. The music spins on below them, and they have all the time in the world, but when Hawke arches her back and cries out, tightening around him, he loses himself to speed, biting at her lip as he kisses her and wanting to laugh, and not knowing why. 

His climax reaches him slowly, and seems to go on forever. He is shaking by the end, sweat dripping from his hair into his eyes, and catching his breath takes minutes. Hawke holds him as he comes down, stroking his hair and murmuring in his ear, her heart a steadily-slowing rhythm against his chest. 

"You," she says, still breathless herself, when he raises up on trembling arms, "are incredible." 

Fenris cuts his eyes away; he still does not know what to say to such things, no matter how earnest she is when she says it. Someday, he might know, but not tonight. 

"You know," Hawke says a moment later, her eyes gleaming in the dark. "I think we should ask Varric if he won't mind finding his own way home." 

Fenris looks back up at her, at the sleepy, warm smile she wears, and then lets his head fall to her chest. 

"Yes," he says. "We should." 


End file.
